White Gloves
by GraphiteHeron
Summary: Kaile Reyne returns to West Harbor to tell a mother about a murdered son. Explores militia customs and a mother's grief through the eyes of a farmgirl. Oneshot


**Author's Note: I know it's been a long time since I've posted anything on and I have other stuff I need to work on - but I'm having technical difficulties. So, my first foray into NWN2, with Kaile Reyne. Tiefling, fighter/weapon master, Lawful Neutral. Retta Starling always seemed too forgiving of the KC, and telling her always seemed so informal. So, this is me rectifying that. Enjoy my interpretation of tragedy and militia customs.**

White Gloves

The road back to West Harbor was longer than any path Kaile Reyne had ever walked. She had hoped for her return to be a less somber event. Instead, she was going to tell an already grieving widow that her eldest son was also dead.

Kaile had originally intended to walk her path alone and return to Neverwinter when her gruesome task was completed. Some of her companions would have none of it. Shandra refused to leave Kaile's side. Casavir insisted on being there for her, moral support in this trying time. Even Sand followed her, claiming he owed her at least that. And then there was Bishop.

"You're going to tell your best friend's mother that you murdered her eldest son," Bishop had sneered. "I want to watch."

Traveling with Bishop made the tiefling's journey conversely easier. The tracker made her angry, and if she clung to the anger, the other things were less overwhelming. As much as she wanted him dead, she was oddly grateful for his company for the time being.

They reached the edge of the swamp at dusk on the third day. Kaile inhaled deeply through her nose and the ghost of a sad smile crossed her dark brown face before she quelled it. The smell of the swamp was comforting in its own way. Her non swamp-born companions found it offensive, but to Kaile, it was home. Needing to see West Harbor again, despite her reasons for returning, Kaile quickened her pace, picking out familiar trails through the Mere and leaving heelless footprints in the mire until finally her village came into sight.

There were still signs of the attack that had preempted her departure, but the village was mostly rebuilt. West Harbor could be bent, but never broken. Kaile stopped walking at the house she had grown up in. Daeghun had repaired the door; only the damaged frame suggested that duergar had ever kicked the door in.

"Make yourselves at home," Kaile offered, her deep, rough voice thick with an unidentifiable emotion. She held the door open. "I have to get dressed before I talk to Commander Redfell…and Retta." She waited for everyone to file inside but pounded up the stairs before anyone could answer her.

Her room had not changed since the fateful night when Bevil Starling had come bursting in, yelling about the attack. The armor stand was still in the corner with her militia dress uniform. Kaile closed her door and stripped out of her leather armor. Slowly, she removed her formal dress uniform from the stand and laid it out on her bed. Piece by piece she donned the uniform, adjusting it as she went. Her mahogany pants were first, her belt pulled snug and the brass buckle centered beneath her navel. Her polished boots were pulled on next, gleaming dully black. She pulled on her tan coat, buttoning it slowly from the bottom up, dark fingers trembling on each large, shiny brass button. Kaile buckled on her sword belt. Reluctantly, she picked up her pair of white cotton gloves. She clenched them in her hands before sliding them on. The calluses of her battle-worn hands caught and snagged in the fibers. Her final garnish was the dark brown beret with the brass West Harbor militia insignia pinned to it. She hated things touching her head. The beret sat forebodingly behind her horns, an impassive witness to the tragedy she was about to deliver.

Kaile drifted downstairs. Four pairs of eyes watched her carefully.

Casavir spoke first. "My lady, should you require our assistance…"

"No." Kaile's voice came out unexpectedly harsh. "Please, soldier, it's Lieutenant Reyne. This is a militia matter. We're burying one of our own tonight." She saluted them, and left.

Sand, Shandra, and Casavir watched from the window. Kaile marched across the way to where a grey-haired woman sat in a rocking chair on her front porch. The woman's eyes followed the uniform from the beret down to the white gloves. Realization dawned without a word being spoken. The woman buried her face in her hands, shaking with sobs and screaming incoherently at Kaile. Kaile in turn removed her beret and saluted.

Shandra frowned while she watched. It was several minutes before she witnessed Kaile say anything and Retta Starling still seemed to know. How? The farm girl's expression must have asked for her, because she got an answer without having to ask out loud.

"Kaile's uniform is hardly functional," Casavir murmured, deep blue eyes fixed on the tiefling.

"Therefore we must conclude that it is a dress uniform," Sand continued. "The kind of uniform one wears to inform a mother that her son has fallen in battle." The elf's silky voice lacked his usual biting sarcasm. His solemnity was eerie.

Outside, across the village green, Retta was railing against Kaile, pounding her fists against the tiefling's chest as she screamed for justice in the voice of a mother deprived of her child.

Shandra wasn't blind. She had seen Retta's initial reaction to the gloves. The gloves were obviously significant somehow.

"What about the white gloves? They clearly aren't uniform, or they'd be tan or brown. What do they mean?" the farm girl demanded, tan eyes narrowed.

Sand shrugged. He was a wizard - military customs were beyond him. Casavir pressed his lips shut and averted his eyes, shaking his head. This had to be some sacred custom, then. Fortunately for her curiosity, there was one amongst their number that held _nothing_ sacred. The blonde turned her baleful gaze on Bishop. The ranger laughed.

"Isn't it obvious? In any military group, wearing pure white gloves to a funeral represents having your hands stained in blood." He laughed again, cruelly, and Shandra finally understood. "It means you've murdered one of your own."


End file.
